The nature of love
by SnapeSeraphin
Summary: A woman contemplating her relationship, while looking at her lover in the early morning light. SSHG, but could be any characters you like.
1. Her POV

_**Author's note**_

_This is a short one-shot that has been playing around in my head for the last couple of days, demanding to be written out. I am not entirely certain to describe what it is, exactly._

_I would say it is an attempt to explain the nature of love, but that is a much too daunting task for a mere mortal to endeavour._

_Maybe I should just admit that it is probably the result of being single and not having anyone to concentrate my romantic energies on ;-)_

_Either way, it feels as if this text was ripped from my core, honest and true and even though I am not sure it is as good as it could be, I am a bit pleased with it anyway._

_there are no names and apart from some details mentioned this could be about anyone, really. I was writing it, however, with Hermione and Severus in mind._

* * *

Your eyes are closed. 

Are you sleeping?

I gently raise myself onto an elbow and study your face.

You appear to be asleep; your breaths are deep and even, a puff of breath periodically dislodging the thin strand of hair that had the audacity to fall over your lips. It always comes to rest right where it was before. You don't seem to mind.

You're curled up on your side, as you usually are. It used to annoy me you do that. I never had quite enough room to sleep at first. I thought it might be an unconscious move that revealed you didn't want me here after all.

You never explained. Of course you didn't. I never told you I felt that way and you are not the kind of person to dwell on emotions. Yet as I study you in the grey light of early morning, I don't doubt you want me here any longer.

After all, curled up as you might be, your face is turned toward me. I revel in the fact that you allow me to study you like this, asleep or not. My hand itches to trace the lines I can see, running from your nose down to the corners of your mouth. I want to lightly run my finger over the back of your nose. I know you wouldn't let me. You sleep very lightly.

So I content myself with committing your face to memory. After all this time, I still don't think you are handsome. They say when you love someone, what he or she looks like doesn't matter. That is true. I don't care you're not handsome.

They also say that when you love someone, they'll be handsome to you. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that. I don't know how much of a sentimental fool you have to be to believe that one, but I certainly don't. Sometimes, when the light is just right and the mood hits me, I think you have a moderately pleasing face.

I never think you are handsome.

I found that it doesn't matter. As I said, I don't care you're not handsome and you wouldn't believe me if I told you you were… Still, I love your face. Things don't have to be perfect to be loved. In fact, I have discovered that it is much easier to love imperfection.

That you are. Imperfect. Anyone would agree to that.

Yet I love the way your eyebrows have a little kink in them, right over the middle of your eye. I love the shape of your nose, even if it is crooked and slightly too big for your face. I won't insult you by saying 'it gives your face character'. I love the shape of your lips too. They're thin and hardly have any colour in them, but I know that, despite appearances, they are very soft. I love the lines that I wanted to trace with my fingers just now. They show what you have suffered. They tell a story you will not. I think it is pride that keeps you from telling anyone just how much you have sacrificed. Not even to me do you confess the sins that keep you awake at night. I am sure I would not judge you, my love, if you shared them with me. I would hold you and tell you everything is going to be al right.

Maybe you are right for not telling me.

Thinking about it like this has led me to realise just how inadequate that response would be. Like a platitude. Something people say but hardly ever believe in. I would believe in it, dearest. I would mean it from the bottom of my heart.

It would probably still sound empty.

Maybe I could fool other people with it, but not you. Never you. After all, if there is one person who is embodiment of the fact that actions speak louder than words, it would be you.

Perhaps that is why you never talk about it. You don't need to hear my absolution. It is given to you every time we meet. Every time I smile at you, without reserve. Every time I gently touch your upper arm to get your attention, instead of just calling your name like the others. Every time our eyes meet during boring meetings and we share a secret joke. Every time I don't hesitate to walk beside you when we go out in public.

You are a smart man.

My eyes roam over your features again while you continue sleeping. Unaware of my watching you, unaware of the thoughts running through my head. Would you be scared if you knew I was thinking about us?

You were so apprehensive at first. No matter what I said, you wouldn't trust me. I guess you couldn't.

You trust me now.

I revel in that fact, while I watch you sleep. Watch that small, stubborn strand of hair get blown away with your breath, to stubbornly come to rest against your lips again.

Your lips, which are so soft. Who are surrounded by those lines that run from around the corners of your mouth to your nose. Your nose that is crooked and slightly too big for your face.

No you are certainly not handsome.

But you are mine.

And I love every bit about you. Even the ones that annoy me. Even the ones I hate at times. Because they are what make you the man that you are. The man I fell in love with.

I could say it was because of your fierce intelligence. I could say that it was because of the mystery that used to surround you, drawing me in, enticing me to solve the puzzle. I could even say it was because of what you did. The way you did what you thought was right.

But I don't want to explain myself to people who will never understand just how appealing you are to me. I don't want to have the feeling I need to defend my choice by telling them how brave you are, how cunning. How fiercely loyal. And I certainly don't want to explain how tender you can be. What a gentle and loving soul you keep hidden deep inside of you. Below all the defences you draw up and the façade you hide behind.

At the end of the day there is nothing to explain.

I love you.

Nothing more, nothing less.

There's no need for dissertations on how you complement me in every way and make me feel complete. Even if that is nothing less than the truth either.

I just love you.

The feeling overwhelms me. I am still looking at you sleep. My eye wanders to where your dark eyelashes rest against pale skin. There are lines there too. They are not like the other lines. These do not speak of what you suffered.

Even up close, they are hardly visible. I suppose that's not surprising. If I have any say in the matter though, those lines will be more pronounced in time.

If I didn't know you'd laugh at me and call me a sentimental fool, I'd cry for you. The fierce protectiveness welling up in me takes me somewhat by surprise.

Maybe that is why I forget that you are a light sleeper. Or maybe I just don't care anymore.

Even though my finger barely grazes your skin, your eyes open immediately. I don't pretend to be looking elsewhere and I don't pull back my hand. You would know what I was doing no matter how good my acting skills.

What surprises me though, is that you let me.

Your hand doesn't come up to push mine away. You just lay there, quietly, allowing my fingers to explore your face.

My fingers skim along your forehead, just above your eyebrows. A soft caress on your temple. The strand of hair that has been dancing to the rhythm of your breathing is pushed behind your ear.

A couple of fingers linger there, enjoying the freedom to play with your hair for a moment. Then, the tip of my middle finger kisses the sensitive skin just below your eye in a sweeping caress. It traces your jaw line and the contours of your thin mouth.

Unconsciously, I take a deep breath when it is lifted and looses contact with your skin. I bring it up higher and then back towards your face again.

It settles in the small hollow at the bridge of your nose as if it was meant to rest there. I hardly breathe while my finger slides down your nose in the softest caress yet.

As my hand once more looses contact with your skin it seems as if you are hardly breathing either.

We stare at each other.

I wish I could say something, but there are just no words to express what I feel.

Roughly, my hand clasps the back of your head and I press my lips against your forehead in a fierce kiss.

I release a shuddering breath.

"I love you so much."

The intensity of my whispered words is almost frightening, but they still do not convey my feelings accurately. I pull back slightly, my hand still tangled in your hair.

Our eyes lock.

Your expression hasn't changed though. You don't speak. You don't move. Not yet, anyway. It is as if you don't respond at all.

You don't see it, do you, dear reader?

But if you knew him as well as I do... you would see the smile in his eyes.

_Finite incantatem_


	2. His POV

**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter and his universe belong to JK Rowling. I only do this for my own amusement, and possibly some others.

**AN**: I just found this on my computer…I wrote it over half a year ago and I think I was planning on working on it some more. Now that I have just reread it though, I can't find anything wanting…

I know, that probably sounds conceited. It probably is. But I like this as it is, so I'm posting it. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

The nature of love 

_His point of view_

I wake the second your finger touches my skin.

Even if it is one of the softest touches anyone has ever seen fit to bestow upon me. I was not made for soft touches. I am not used to them. They make me feel uncomfortable.

Normally I would push your hands away.

You are looking at me with that curious gleam in your eyes again. No-one but you ever looked at me like that. It's barely describable.

There is warmth in your eyes. Hunger maybe. Tenderness as well. You do not look away. You never look away.

Even when we had nothing but a professional relationship, you dared defy me. Most grown men lack such courage. For that alone, I would admire you.

You are such a small person, really. When we stand in the bathroom barefoot, side by side in the morning, you hardly reach my shoulder. But when we are here, in my bed, all of that goes away. It's inconsequential that I am taller than you. It doesn't matter that I am more powerful than you.

Because in here, in private, we are the same. Whatever power I have over you, you wield equal power over me.

No-one, but you has ever been tender to me. Some have tried, but I never let them. You refused to be discouraged though. You waited until I was more vulnerable than ever before. I had just been informed that the events I had been hoping to witness for decades had come to pass. The desperate longing, the bitter fighting, it had all come to an end. My emotions were a complete mess and I did not know what to think. And then you came to me. I couldn't have made you leave unless you chose to go. I was at your mercy then.

And mercy it was. For you asked me whether or not I wanted you to leave. You would have gone too, if I had said yes. I could see it in your eyes as clear as day.

There was something else in your eyes that day, however. I had some difficulty realizing what it was, since I had had little opportunity to study that emotion in the people around me.

Hope.

You, infuriating, stubborn, irritating little woman. Loving, caring, brave, incredible woman. You were looking at me, the monster out of children's nightmares with hope. You didn't want me to send you away.

You would let me...but you didn't want it.

I never did.

Through the years I have been called many things, few of them flattering. Most of them true. You never seemed bothered by that.

With you I discovered what it was like to not hold back. You offered me freedom.

So now that I find myself, waking in a bed that has been mine for as long as I care to remember, a bed that holds many memories of cold and haunted nights, to see you looking at me as if I were the one most precious to you, how can I do anything but hold still?

How can I not hold your gaze, hardly breathing, drinking in the aching tenderness in your touch?

Even though I am frightened.

I am not used to tenderness. And I am not used to giving a damn myself.

While your hand flutters about my face, bestowing sweet caresses and butterfly kisses of skin on skin and I let you, I feel like I am more vulnerable every second. Like a flower opening up to show it's heart… it could be ripped out just like that.

Not that I am anything resembling a flower. The unflattering things that have been said about me not seldom concerned my appearance. Lord knows those were true as well. Again, you don't seem to mind. And while my skin tingles and hums with your ministrations, I don't mind either. It doesn't matter.

Your eyes never leave my face and hold an expression of disbelieving wonder. I understand. I never let you touch me like this. If nothing else, the nervous churning of my stomach tells me as much.

Nobody ever gets this close to me.

I don't let them.

No-one but you.

I have to suppress a shiver as your fingertip traces my lips. The look of concentration on your face is one I know well. I have seen it many a time when you are working or reading. You seem a bit anxious too, if I read you correctly.

Don't worry, my sweet, I am afraid too.

Your finger looses contact with my skin. I wonder what I look like to you. I know you don't find me handsome. You do not believe in Shakespearian truths. Yet the way you look at me, so intense, almost blissful, I cannot shake the feeling that you find pleasure in studying my features.

I do, by the way. Believe in Shakespearian truths, that is. I always knew you were pretty, but since I have fallen in love with you I find you the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.

I freeze.

There's a barely perceptible touch of your skin just above my nose. It's silly I know, but that particular feature has been the target of taunts for such a long time that I have grown quite self-conscious. I hardly realize I have stopped breathing altogether.

Your finger slides along my crooked nose in the sweetest attention it has ever been given. Your eyes by now are luminous. In the cold grey light of the early morning, they manage to light up the semi-darkness that surrounds us. They are overflowing with emotion.

Before I have time to analyze them, you have grasped the back of my head and I feel your lips pressed against my forehead in an urgent kiss.

"I love you so much."

Your whispered words are harsh and intense and quite possibly the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. There is no mistaking the raw feeling beneath, no mistaking the honesty and truth behind it. If I ever doubted your love, the doubt would end now.

An avalanche of feelings wash over me, so intense I can hardly breathe. I never once thought I could have this. Hell, before there was you, I did not know this existed.

Unable to articulate the love surging through my chest, the immense gratitude towards life, fate or any deity of your choosing for granting me this, I keep still, locking gazes with you once more.

I don't even know where to start, to explain what you mean to me.

Then again, as our eyes keep staring into the other's, I imagine I do not need to say anything. Unless I am very much mistaken, my eyes say it all.


End file.
